


all the gold and the guns in the world (couldn't get you off)

by architecture_in_f1ll0ry



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: F/M, but she still loves her brother :), kuvira has bigger things to worry about, unrequited love blah blah, ust that only becomes half resolved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25140523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/architecture_in_f1ll0ry/pseuds/architecture_in_f1ll0ry
Summary: Baatar Jr. will never be enough for Kuvira, and they both know that.
Relationships: Baatar Jr./Kuvira (Avatar)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	all the gold and the guns in the world (couldn't get you off)

**Author's Note:**

> happy baavira week, everyone
> 
> title is a reference to the metric song "gold guns girls"

Baatar has never been a fighter. He prefers to flex his mind, use his hands for bringing blueprints to life, the mechanical miracle of pure creation, not combat. It’s an unfortunate predilection, in his view, as he already shares his father’s face and name; he would prefer a few more distinctions between them, for the sake of his rather feeble personhood. But he’s had years to come to terms with his particular gifts, and fighting—much less bending, to his mother’s disappointment—is definitely not one of them.

Nonetheless, if there is one thing that sets him firmly apart from his family, it’s his devotion to Kuvira. When she pokes her head into his room late one night to ask him to spar with her, he pretends to deliberate for a few seconds before saying yes. Her answering smile—an expression so rare during her even rarer visits home from the Academy—sends a warm rush through him, which he hopes she doesn’t notice. The lights are low in the Beifong residence at this time of night, the austere halls hushed, each family member sequestered to their own pursuits, so he need not worry, probably. If he’s gone this many years pining for Kuvira in miserable silence, surely he can keep it under wraps until she slips away again the following day.

He follows her outside and into the small courtyard, the night air cool and thin around them. He’s become accustomed to watching her while making it seem like he isn’t: the brief, sideways glances, waiting until she’s half-turned away to indulge himself, learning which angles of sunlight will render the lenses of his glasses momentarily opaque, obscuring the direction of his gaze. Tonight, though, she’s inviting his regard, circling him with a rueful smile, aware of his wrong-footedness out here in her domain. She’s an endless enigma to him, dangerous and brilliant, and now he’s able to witness her power firsthand.

And thoroughly embarrass himself in the process. That much is guaranteed.

“When’s the last time you sparred?” she asks playfully, the outline of her muscles visible in her gear: black muscle tank, fitted green pants. Her hair is in a low braid, several strands loose: she must have already warmed up out here, then came back inside specifically to fetch him. The thought makes him bite back a grin.

“Probably the last time you cracked open a book.”

She raises her eyebrows in mock offense, a smirk touching her lips. “Touché. Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.”

Please? “Do your worst,” he taunts instead, because he has a little bit of pride. He crouches into position, heart thrumming, fists raised. There’s a blur of movement, and then he’s staring up at the inky black sky, trying not to gasp out loud for breath.

She extends a hand to help him up, brow creased in worry. “Well I can tell you that wasn’t my worst, Baatar.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbles, but his humiliation is worth it when she laughs, pats his cheek. Her hand is cool, steady. 

“This time, keep your eyes open.” He’s ready for her next attack, parrying it with some effort, and manages to land a glancing blow, but she ducks away before it can really connect. “Nice one.”

“Don’t patronize me.” He’s already breaking a sweat, and she’s clearly holding back, but he wants to see her smile again.  
  


“I know your lane, Baatar, and this isn’t it.” Her braid flies through the air as she swoops low to destabilize him, flips around to avoid his kick. “Higher next time, put some oomph into it.”

“Some oomph?” He blocks her next hit, their forearms connecting solidly, and he has a brief moment of self-congratulation before she’s whirling behind him to demonstrate, knocking him flat onto his back. “Oomph. Got it.”

“Come on, old man, I’m not helping you up every time.”

“Kuvira, I’m two years older than you.”

She’s already back in position, her eyes glittering with warmth and mischief, her body taut and lean, poised to strike. The dusky golden light of the torches lining the courtyard enhances the intense green of her eyes, the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, the curved dip where her neck meets her chest. It always takes some time, tense as she is when the rest of the family is around, his mother in particular, but when it’s just the two of them, she lets down her guard, a little bit more every time. She never smiles like this with the rest of them, he’s sure of it.

“Alright then, spring chicken, come prove me wrong.”

He launches himself at her, hoping to knock her off balance, at the very least, which works: she isn’t expecting the full force of his body and they tumble down, though she quickly gets her bearings, flipping them over, pinning him firmly to the ground. There’s more hair in her face and she’s breathing hard, cheeks pink with exertion, grinning down at him in surprise.

“Okay, fine,” she huffs, and Baatar is hyper aware of the way her thighs bracket his hips, the corded muscles of her arms as she keeps herself raised over him, the very particular scent of her sweat, the very slight inward twist of her left lower incisor, only visible when she smiles this wide. “That wasn’t terrible.” She blinks, her smile melting into slight confusion, and he has no idea what his face is doing to make her look that way but it’s nothing good, this is bad, extremely bad.

An eternity passes in a second, and then she shifts—presumably to rise back to standing, hoping to dispel the tension. Baatar makes an aborted noise of warning, but it’s too late, she’s brushed against his rapidly swelling cock, and it’s a lit match tossed carelessly into a river of gasoline: roaring, immediate, unavoidable.

He can’t help it, but he can, he has to: he keeps his hips still, clutching helplessly at her arms, his fingers easily encircling the soft, warm skin of her biceps, and they feel smaller in his hands than he would expect. She’s strong, he knows this, but like this, she’s also slight, noticeably smaller than him. He doesn’t know how he should feel about how this thought sends a tsunami wave of want through him, but knows Kuvira would hate it—the way she hates being made to look small or stupid or powerless, always has, ever since they were children who played hide-and-seek in the massive estate’s closets and stole candy—and later, alcohol— from his mother's private stores together. He needs to get his bearings, somehow, needs to summon the mettle to look up at her, but if he opens his eyes then this will be more real than he’s currently capable of handling.

“Baatar.” Her voice is low, as if trying not to be heard, as if there’s anyone around to hear them, as if anyone has ever cared about what they have to say. “Baatar,” she tries again, more forceful this time. She hasn’t moved. “Look at me.”

So he does, because she tells him to, and he can’t read her expression at all, which is different, and intriguing. Her eyes are bright, still astonishingly green, her mouth set with some sort of determination, almost calculating. Her eyes flicker between his, and he can’t shake the eerie sensation that she is reading _him_ instead, studying his secrets, finally laid bare to the one person he so desperately sought to hide them from. Eventually, his words find air. “I—I’m so sor—”

“Be quiet.” She commands it softly, so softly that for a second he thinks he imagines it, and he opens his mouth to—what? What power could he possibly possess in this moment? The power of speech, even, is a gamble, because he’ll be damned if he can summon enough brainwaves to coax out even the slightest sound as she reaches down and cups him, keeping her other arm braced at his side as she squeezes the stiff length in her palm, traces the outline with her fingers. The threshold crossed, then he can’t bite back the needy little moan that climbs from his throat, nor the arch of his back at the firm touch, the way she’s just watching him calmly, contentedly, as she strokes. It’s agonizingly too much and too little, too sudden a manifestation of the fantasies he’s been trying to suppress for so long (all the nights of lonely, solitary gasps, rutting into his mattress) as he conjured impossible scenario after scenario, fever dreams of happenstance that could lead to even an approximation of this. 

It’s over embarrassingly fast, his hips shooting upward when her thumb lazily circles the leaking head of his cock, and he has only a moment to despair of his choice to wear light grey pants tonight as he stains the front of them completely, biting his lip against a moan so hard his teeth pierce the skin.

Several long moments pass, in which he tries to get his breathing under control and Kuvira sits back, seemingly giving him privacy, gazing out over the grassy lawn beyond the courtyard, at the gently floating insects hovering in the glowing circles of light. Baatar wants to stare and he doesn’t, he thinks about touching her and he can’t, a thousand questions scrabbling against each other in his mind, a senseless clamor. 

She turns her head, not looking at him, but in his direction, her voice as measured and cool as ever. “Good night, Baatar.” And then she’s gliding to her feet and striding away without a backward glance, disappearing into the darkness beyond the reach of the lights, until he sees her figure wink back into view, shrunken in the distance as she reaches the house, opens the door, steps inside.

She’s the only person in his life who doesn’t append the “junior” when she says his name.

//

Kuvira is far from stupid.

She knows, she’s always known—even if it wasn’t a conscious knowledge, back when Baatar would always save the last dumpling for her, even when it was his favorite, or always get her a birthday present and wrap it, so she would have at least one gift to open after they’d dutifully presented her with a cake. The older they grew, the more obvious his regard: the odd, furtive stares, the way he would flinch when they touched, as if burned, the scarlet flush in his cheeks whenever she paid him a rare compliment. In fact, one of her favorite things about Baatar is his genuine belief that he is anything less than a complete open book—an astonishingly easy one for her to read.

Then again, she feels this way about most people, even before they’ve exchanged a word. Perhaps it is just that Baatar is the only person still in her life who’s ever returned such an outsize proportion of her love.

Because she does love him, of _course_ she does; he’s brilliant and compassionate and impassioned, a natural born thinker and strategist, traits that she’s come to appreciate greatly. He’s her brother and her friend, and often her only ally in this strange, cold house that both is and is not her home. And as the past few months have proven, far more than an ally; a comrade, someone she can confide in and plot with and rely on as she works to bring her dreams to fruition, dreams bearing kind of ambition she knows Suyin would be grudgingly proud of, but never, ever admit. In fact, it’s the inevitability of her disapproval, the final nail in the coffin of their mutual betrayal, that fuels her fervor now: still, somehow, seeking approval, but in its inverse. As a child, she basked in Suyin’s praise, lapped it up like a faithful dog; in adolescence, she learned to scorn it, warmed by the weight of her obvious aversion instead. If there is anything—anything—in this world that Kuvira can’t abide, it is her adoptive mother's disregard. But the way Suyin loves and hates, they are equally satisfying, equally corrosive. 

“Can I kiss you?” Baatar asks now, straining at her touch, his face so open and yearning, as it always is, especially when she takes him apart like this with her hands, pressing and stroking and fucking him until he’s a needy mess, so beautifully pliable in his easy surrender. 

She smirks down at him and shakes her head, thinking of their plans, thinking of the way Suyin’s face had contracted when they told her they were engaged earlier that day. It’s almost as satisfying as the way Baatar muffles his next gasp in his forearm, eyes clenching shut as she pushes in deeper, crooking her fingers just so. She continues jacking him lazily with her other hand until his thighs tremble open wider, a shuddering moan caught in his throat as he thrusts once, hard, shooting thick ropes of cum over her fingers, his stomach, the striped sheets of her bed.

She has an army. She has the tech, and the vehicles, and the manpower to forge her new life, her new calling. Stepping into the destiny no one has created for her but herself, with the necessary assistance and guaranteed loyalty of the only person who’s ever been willing to follow her into whatever unknown. 

She wipes her hand on his shirt, watching his chest heave as he comes down, his hair a tousled mess, glasses askew. “You can’t kiss your sister, Baatar.”

_“Don’t_ call yourself my sister when you’ve just had your fingers up my ass,” he snaps, fisting a hand into her shirt, tugging her down. He’s always more blunt after an orgasm, less prude and skittish about exactly what’s happening here. Not that they’ve explicitly discussed it, or need to, even; he’s always been one to catch on quick, and Kuvira doesn’t have the time or patience to pretend she feels anything other than exactly what she does. His eyes are a burning brand, his thumping pulse a race car careening off the track as she finally acquiesces, draping herself over him, their breath mingling when he speaks, hushed, reverent. “Kuvira. When will you let me touch you?”

She kisses him as a means of distraction, because it’s easier, because she’s tired of his obvious _pining_ for it, clouding his judgment when they need to work. She kisses him and it just feels fine, his tongue hot and heavy in her mouth, and she may not love him like he loves her, but still, he tastes like home.

  
  



End file.
